


Eyes Wide Open

by interrobangme



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: And mortified, Erik is colorblind, M/M, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 02:25:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interrobangme/pseuds/interrobangme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for this prompt at the LJ kinkmeme. Basically, Erik is colorblind (it's the only explanation for his outfit at the end of XMFC). He finds out in front of the X-Men. Mortification ensues. http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/11912.html?thread=22949768#t22949768</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyes Wide Open

Erik stood cloistered in his workshop once again. He hadn’t spent more than a few hours out of it at a time after Cuba, hell-bent on finishing his new helmet. Emma strolled in to tell him that dinner was ready (or rather, that Azazel had fetched dinner from some unsuspecting family’s dining table as they lowered their heads in prayer, poofing in and out before they could so much as see him) but she halts in the doorway. 

Erik—Magneto—the leader of the Brotherhood, the figurehead meant to lead them on to a mutant revolution, is bent over a sewing machine. The clothing being tortured under the Singer is positively ghastly. Emma was never one for color anyways, preferring the eternally classy statement of a crisp white outfit, but even she knows that these particular shades of purple and red are just wrong. A crime against fashion. Fitting, perhaps, for the crimes he wants to commit against humanity.

Beside the shiny fabric of Erik’s new cape— _oh God, that’s exactly what it is, it’s a goddamned cape_ —sits what could only be the new model of his helmet. It matches the costume under the sewing needle, only it’s even brighter and more garish for all its sheen and unapologetic brightness. 

When he turns around to see why she’s come in, Erik is immediately suspicious of the repulsed look on her face. In that instant, she takes a quick peep into his mind, seeing his choices as he walked through the fabric store. The items he selected appear to be mainly black and dark grey, perhaps with a hint of chocolate brown for the collar. 

Emma comes back to herself to double-check that what she’s seeing is absolutely not black, dark grey, or a dignified chocolate color. Nope. Magneto—her boss, her leader, her superior in strength and cunning—was colorblind to the point of gaudiness. 

“What?” Erik snapped, his eyes narrowed. 

Emma sucked her teeth for a moment and looked him and the costume up and down a final time. She debated whether or not to tell him, but in the end settled for letting things lie. After all, it would be nice to feel better than him at one thing, after all the humiliation he put her through. His ego could use a good knock. 

“Nothing,” she said casually, turning around to leave. “Dinner,” she called over her shoulder as she strutted—positively _strutted_ —out of the room.

Erik stared after her for a moment. He looked back down at his work and confirmed the sheer understated elegance of it, all muted colors and delicately chosen threads. He flicked his gaze over to his new helmet and took pride in its coloring as well. Perhaps the idea of a costume was a little over the top, but so was his mission of mutant superiority. 

He thought back to the stricken, sick look on Emma’s face as she entered the workshop. He knew she walked around all day with a puss on—what Raven had crudely dubbed “permanent bitchface syndrome”—but he didn’t think it was _that_ bad. 

Erik reached for the shiny new helmet and brought it over to the metal-working station. He resolved to finish it as soon as possible, if for no other reason than to keep Emma out of his head so she’d have a few less things to judge.

***

After several years, countless mistakes, and one especially harrowing battle, Magneto and his legion come to one conclusion—they needed the X-Men. Even if they couldn’t see eye to eye on the means of attaining mutant rights, at least they all wanted progress in the name of mutantkind. Clearly what Erik and the Brotherhood were doing just wasn’t working.

Erik hovered to a landing on the front lawn of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, refusing to lower his chin. He still had his dignity despite the bleeding wounds in his side, or the black eye under his helmet. He may be giving up his reign of terror but he refused to be anything other than proud. 

Azazel, Emma, and Raven—the few Brothers who weren’t afraid to come to Charles asking for a second chance—fell in a heap on the lawn behind Magneto, a cloud of red sulfur encompassing them. 

Erik flinched at the ungraceful entrance of his team but hoped his stately manner would make up for it. 

They were met on the vast stretch of grass by a few X-Men, flanked around the Professor as he wheeled easily down the path. As they got closer, Magneto saw that Alex was rolling his eyes, receiving an elbow to the ribs from Beast for his attitude. 

“Erik,” Charles said once they’d come face to face in the middle of the lawn. “I’d ask what brings you here,” he raked his eyes over the pile of Brothers heaped unceremoniously on the ground, their various injuries and woes plain on their faces, “but I think I already know the answer to that.”

“Charles, I—” Erik began, prepared to launch into a speech about their differences, about mutant rights, about the uncertainties of the future but the absolutely unshakable sense that they belonged together, united, when he was cut off by a mock-whisper from Alex. 

“Do we really have to do this out here? The damn helmet sparkles enough without the sun shining on it. I think I’ve been blinded!” Hank shoved the younger man and gave him a look. 

Erik, thrown off by the remark, began again. “Charles, I know there’s no way for me to express all I have to say. This has been years in coming, but, as a gesture of my goodwill and sincere contrition, please take this.” 

He reached up and pulled the helmet off his head. He stroked the shiny, dark object with his thumb one final time before handing it over to Charles’ waiting hands. 

“We’re yours to command, old friend.” Erik finished. 

_I’m yours_ , he thought, gazing into Charles’ eyes with an unbroken focus. Erik kneeled and bowed his head before Charles. He couldn’t help but feel satisfied with his bravado. Despite the Brotherhood’s defeat on the battleground, despite his ragged, bloodied appearance, Erik knew he cut quite a figure in his Magneto costume. The grandiose speech was an added bonus. 

He tilted his head up, expecting to see reverence on the faces of all those around him. Maybe even a tear from the more sentimental in the group. What he didn’t expect was to be met with repressed giggles, the X-Men around Charles biting their lips in an effort to contain themselves. 

It was, of course, Alex who broke the barrier. “Jesus Christ, Sir Gallahad! Cut the shit! I don’t know how you take yourself seriously in the mirror every day, but here out in the open with the light bouncing off your dazzling cape? Enough already!” 

As if a floodgate had been opened, the circle of mutants around Erik burst into laughter. He turned from face to face, betrayed. Everyone looked as red in the face as Azazel. Tears rolled down Mystique’s blue cheeks as she doubled over with laughter. 

“I’m just glad I didn’t have to say it,” Emma said with a quirked eyebrow as she recovered from her fit of mirth. 

Still kneeling on the ground, ludicrously, Erik directed his gaze at his final hope. Charles. Thankfully, Charles wasn’t laughing. He smiled sadly at his dear friend and reached out a hand to Erik’s un-helmeted temple. 

Erik was suddenly struck by memories of his mother in their small home in Germany. Dim lights played over her face and the striped sweater he wore on this, his sixth birthday.

“Look, mamma, I picked it out all by myself!” 

He had chosen the sweater for its delicate balance of black and white colors. His socks didn’t quite match, but he liked the idea of putting together dark tones to play off each other. Even his pants had patches of varying shades of grey he had painstakingly sewn on to cover the tears he had rent in the fabric while playing outside. 

His mother looked down at her small son’s proud face, concealing her own grin. 

“Yes, my dearest, you did. And it’s lovely. But just for today, alright? Let me lay out your clothes for a few more years at least.” When she saw the irritation on his face, she hurried to add, “Humor your old mamma, would you? You know how I love to do these simple things for you. Helps me forget how quickly you’re growing up.” 

She reached down and hiked up his mismatched socks, tugged on the too-long sleeve of one sweater, and pinched his cheek.

He smiled. “Alright, mamma. Whatever makes you happy.”

Erik came back to himself with a start, tears in his eyes as he raised them up to Charles. _No. It can’t be._

_I’m afraid so, my friend. There are worse things in the world to be than colorblind. You’ll be alright._

Charles sent soothing thoughts into Erik’s mind, but all the while Erik was being assaulted by memories he could suddenly make sense of. 

His years on the run searching for Schmidt, he’d only allowed himself a few trips to the store for clothes, trying to keep a low profile. But each time as he hurried around the store grabbing an armful of simple, dark pants and shirts in his size, the salesmen would follow him, frantically pleading that he allow them to help him select some more appropriate colors. Finally, after all eyes on the store were on him and his load of clothes, Erik would give up and allow the clerk to pick out a new wardrobe for him just for the sake of getting the hell out of there and back to his hiding place. 

Charles dove into Erik’s mind, permission unasked for but given regardless, and allowed the German a look through his own eyes at Magneto’s costume. It was outrageous. The colors were all wrong. Too bright, too flashy, and they didn’t even go well together. His helmet was like something the strongman in a circus would wear to attract people to the freakshow tent. Everything about this was obnoxious and attention-seeking and very much Not Erik. 

At last Erik gave in to Charles’ calming thoughts and allowed himself a moment. There was nothing to be done now. He’d be damned if he ran away, red in the face and in the cape. He took a breath and stood, raising his chin regally. Erik turned back towards the Brotherhood and stared down his nose at them. 

“A statement had to be made,” he swiveled and scowled down at the X-Men, “for the sake of mutantkind. Sometimes,” he made a sweeping gesture with his arm, vaguely in the direction of his costume, “the need to attract attention takes precedence over the vain desire to present a certain look. Whatever I did in my years as a public figure I did it for the good of my people. Sacrifices had to be made.” 

And with that, Erik swept away and strode to the mansion, his hideous cape billowing behind him. Charles rolled alongside him, pulled by Erik’s powers, as their allies followed some distance behind, shuffling slowly in the wake of Erik’s pomposity. 

_Well done, Erik_ , Charles sent telepathically, smiling at his side.

_I have been blind in more ways than one, my friend,_ Erik returned, _but now my eyes are wide open. I assure you._


End file.
